We must return to the morning of this day, in order to take up the
threads out of which the dark web of these events was spun.
Julie, after having twice sought in vain for her friend at his studio,
had found it impossible, in the anxious state of her heart, to stay
quietly at home. She went to Irene's, for she had found Angelica, who
had not closed her eyes all night, sunk in a deep sleep. She felt
herself greatly drawn toward the Fraeulein, though she had seen her
yesterday for the first time; all the more as Irene, too, was as little
able as all the others to withstand the charm of Julie's character, and
had attached herself to her with a warmth that appeared doubly great in
contrast to her usual coy reserve. It had not been long, thanks to the
freedom of the masquerade, before they stood on so familiar a footing
as to call each other "Du;" and the startling incident that drove
Jansen away from the ball so early had broken down the last trace of
reserve in the friendship between them. They had remained together for
a few hours longer. Julie, to whom Jansen had disclosed in a single
word the mystery of the strange mask, had made no secret of the matter
to her friends, among whom Irene was now counted.
She herself, while taking the occurrence greatly to heart, saw at once
how much nearer the final crisis it had brought her. But the thought
that she must leave him to fight out alone the battle that could not be
avoided, was torture to her.
She wanted at least to be near him, to know every hour what he was
doing, and, if it should be necessary, to be ready to restrain him from
taking any violent steps. His withdrawing from her--although she knew
that he had only done it to spare her--gave her great pain, and she
felt now as if she knew for the first time how much she loved him.
In this mood she presented herself before Irene, who received her most
tenderly. Felix, who had taken occasion to call as early as possible in
the morning, had just taken his leave again, and the eyes and cheeks of
the girl still glowed with the happiness of their reunion. The two
friends had so much to confide to one another that they did not notice
how the hours slipped by, and were very much surprised when the uncle,
who, as a rule, never appeared before dinner-time, entered the room.
Irene introduced him to Julie, and would not listen to such a thing as
her going home to dinner.
The baron seconded her in her hospitable entreaties in his usual
chivalrous manner; though he seemed not to be in as good spirits as was
usual when he found himself in the presence of a beautiful lady. During
the meal, also, he was noticeably depressed and preoccupied, keeping
remarkably silent for him, sighing a great deal, and complaining of old
age, which must overtake even the youngest uncles at last. Then again
he would try to laugh, or tell one of his old _bonmots_; but he soon
relapsed anew into a droll kind of melancholy, in which he railed at
the uncertain lot of humanity and the mysteries of an irresponsible
Providence.
When, after dinner, Irene was called out of the room by a chance caller
whom she hoped quickly to get rid of, and the baron was left alone with
Julie, he suddenly appeared to have gone fairly crazy. He sprang up,
thrust his hands through his thin hair, plucked at his beard, took a
cigar--which he immediately laid down again--and finally drew up his
chair close to the sofa, where Julie was seated.
"Fraeulein Julie," he said, with a deep sigh, "you will think it
strange, but I can't help myself; will you hear me for ten minutes on a
very serious matter, and then give me your advice and, if possible,
your support?"
She looked at him in amazement, but nodded kindly.
"A terribly bad story," he continued; "though, for that matter, a story
that is not without a parallel in this imperfect world of ours, and
one that ought not, by good rights, to break the heart of an old
lion-hunter. But the worst of it is, it so happens that I can turn to
no one for advice and aid, except to a young lady whose delightful
acquaintance I made but an hour ago. Now, my honored Fraeulein, if I
only knew of some married woman, or some respectable elderly lady, in
whom I had confidence--truly, I would spare you and myself the
embarrassment of having to talk to you about the old sins of my youth.
But in all this circle--all bachelors and single women--you will
understand, my dear Fraeulein--"
"Speak out boldly, Herr Baron; I am thirty-one years old."
"No, my dear Fraeulein, the baptismal certificate has nothing to do with
this question; and, although I have the greatest respect for you--you
are still far removed from the canonical age of a person inspiring
respect. But I have learned, through my brother-in-arms Schnetz, how
universally you are honored in Bohemia--pardon the expression, I mean
in the so-called society of Paradise--and that it only needs a word
from you to straighten out much more complicated affairs than this of
mine.
"Perhaps you do not yet know--that is to say, you have undoubtedly
known for a long time--for your talented friends do not generally keep
secrets from one another--in short, I have a daughter--'Have her while
she is mine,' as Polonius says--a daughter, of whose existence I had no
suspicion until recently. Upon the discovery of my fathership I knocked
at my heart, and waited to hear whether the so-called voice of Nature
within would awaken. _Pas le mains du monde._ You will find this
inhuman. But remember that I did not lead a worse life in this good
town than was the fashion at that time, and that this adventure came
half-way to meet me--I wish to throw no shadow either upon the girl or
her parents--_enfin_, they were very cordial with me, and I, in return,
possibly went too far. A few years afterward, I felt something like a
gentle gnawing in my left side, where one is supposed to carry his
conscience. As it did not subside, I wrote to this place in order to
inquire, as a friend of the family, after the health of its different
members. The letter was returned by the post, as the address could not
be found.
"Now, looked at from a strictly moral point of view, I ought not to
have felt, even after this, that I had justified myself. But what would
you have? My contact with the king of the desert had somewhat hardened
my skin, and the before-mentioned gnawing ceased. The girl had never
been exactly what you would call beautiful, but was very attractive
because of her freshness, her free nature, her merry laughter from a
mouth of magnificent teeth. You know complexions of that kind have
something especially dangerous about them for our weaker sex. To be
brief, she had, in spite of all this, completely passed out of my
memory until I saw her again to-day in her daughter--pardon, in our
daughter, I meant to say."
"You sought out the girl? And how did the poor child receive you?"
"As badly as ever a child could receive its long-lost father. You can
imagine, dear Fraeulein, that it was no easy mission for me to fulfill.
A man cuts such a wretched figure in the character of the repentant
father, who, at the very first meeting with his grown-up daughter, is
obliged to beg her pardon for having totally forgotten her. But there
are sour apples into which one would rather bite than let himself be
bitten by his conscience. I assumed a fatherly, venerable mien, and,
when I entered the room where the girl was, and recognized in her her
dead mother--as if the resemblance had been stolen from a mirror--I can
assure you that at last the voice of Nature asserted itself. But
scarcely had I introduced myself, with the necessary delicacy,
to the unsuspecting child as one who had certain sacred, though
long-neglected, rights to her childish affection, when the strange
creature springs up like a little fury, and flies into the adjoining
room. Now I ask you, my dear Fraeulein, is a father who wishes to make
good his faults a monster from whom one ought to run away? I stood
there as if rooted to the spot; and, as soon as I recovered from my
surprise, I did my best to conciliate my daughter through the bolted
door. I spoke the kindest words to her, and promised her anything in
the world if she would only be sensible and let me talk to her; and,
truly, I must have succeeded in the end--the voice of Nature must
finally have awakened even in her young bosom--when suddenly the old
gentleman--my _quasi_ father-in-law--entered the room. Would you
believe it? this white-haired old man, instead of coming to my aid with
the wisdom of a grandfather, suddenly becomes as wild and unreasonable
as a youth, says the most incredible things to my very face, and while
I, out of respect for his gray hairs and lost in astonishment, am at a
loss what to answer, he takes me _sans facon_ by the arm and leads me
to the door, which he slams after me like a clap of thunder."
The energy with which he had related all this seemed suddenly to have
taken away his breath. He sprang up, threw open the window, and took a
few deep draughts of the cold winter air; then, burying his hands deep
in the pockets of his short coat, he walked slowly back to where Julie
was sitting.
"You must admit, my dear Fraeulein," he said, "that this brutal
reception was well calculated to silence the voice of Nature once more.
This old--but no! He is right; if I had been in his place, and my
son-in-law had taken twenty years to make up his mind to stammer out
his _peccavi_, I should probably have been even less ceremonious, and
have simply kicked the fellow down-stairs, even if I had done nothing
worse to him. But still, as you can easily imagine, this encounter
rather shattered me."
He threw himself into the chair again, sighed like a man in utter
desperation, and ran his hands through his hair.
"And how can I help or advise you, Herr Baron?" asked Julie, after a
pause. "It seems to me there is nothing left for you to do but to write
to Herr Schoepf and to your daughter, and tell them by letter what they
would neither of them listen to in their first excitement."
"Pardon, my dear Fraeulein, that wouldn't do much good. These two mad
beings would not treat my letters any better than they did their
author. And yet, you will understand that I cannot rest content when my
father-in-law and my daughter have turned me out-of-doors. I must atone
for my old crime so far as such a thing is possible at this late day.
For me, in my years and circumstances, to suddenly long for paternal
joys, to receive this girl into my bachelor's quarters, and to
introduce her to society as a young baroness--I, who have already had
such a hard time with one grown-up daughter, by whom I am forced to let
myself be ordered about--would be the height of the ridiculous: to say
nothing of the fact that I doubt very much whether I should ever be
able to tame this red-maned lioness. But, on the other hand, Father
Schoepf, as he now calls himself, is no longer one of the youngest men
in the world; and, aside from that, by no means a Cr[oe]sus. If the
child stays with him, who knows but what she, too, will fall into bad
hands, like her poor mother? And in case she should remain a good
girl--you know, my dear Fraeulein, that virtue as a sole dowry is not
particularly in demand nowadays. I want, therefore, to secure for my
daughter--whether she acknowledges me or not--a respectable marriage
portion; not merely a dowry--it must be known that Fraeulein Schoepf
possesses in her own right so and so much property. Now, you see, my
dear Fraeulein, only such a soft and winning voice as yours can succeed
in persuading Father Schoepf to consent to such an arrangement, which
is so greatly for the interest of the child. Now, if I should send
Schnetz to him, he would, if he had to deal with a man, fire up about
his ridiculous manly honor, and the end of the story would be that
Schnetz would likewise be shown the door. But you, if you will only
consent--and why shouldn't you consent?--may even succeed in the end in
inspiring this wild creature, my own flesh and blood, with some
human emotion; so that she will feel for her papa, who really is no
monster--but stop! the visit in the next room is over. Not a word of
this to Irene. Promise me this. May I depend on you?"
He reached her both his hands across the table with such a true-hearted
and, at the same time, comically-crushed manner, that she did not
hesitate for a moment to close the bargain. In a second his mood seemed
to have gone through a complete transformation. He sprang up, bent over
her hand, which he eagerly kissed, and began to hum a tune and to light
a cigar, talking all the while about the masked ball of the night
before. His niece, when she entered again, laughingly asked what magic
charm her beautiful friend had been using in her absence, to dispel so
completely her dear uncle's melancholy mood.
Julie smiled and answered that people ought not to laugh at the secrets
of magic, and the baron acted as though nothing at all had happened.
Then the two friends took leave of one another. Julie was anxious to
see Jansen again, whom she confidently hoped to find in his studio at
this hour. But on the stairs, to which the baron escorted her, she
whispered to him:
"Why don't you want to let Irene into the secret? Unless I am very much
mistaken, she already knows the first half; you owe it to her to tell
her the other half, which truly does you honor."
"Do you think so?" answered the baron. "Irene have a suspicion? Good
God, these young girls nowadays! One takes great credit to one's self
for the profound innocence and ignorance in which one has brought them
up, and they are wiser than we ourselves! Well, then, in Heaven's name!
one sour apple more; my teeth are yet on edge from the first one."
He kissed Julie's hand once more and returned, sighing, to his niece.